Suspended Animation
by Kendra Luehr
Summary: After discovering Hannibal's suspicious recipe cards during a soiree, Abigail feels compelled to bring them to Will's attention. Together, they attempt to absolve themselves and ensnare Hannibal, though in the end, perhaps the monster has ensnared them, instead. (An AU one-shot of S1's final events.)


**A/N:** This is an RP exchange between myself and another RPer - I write for Abigail in this, and she writes for Will, and we both took turns with Hannibal. Briefly in the beginning, a secret meeting is mentioned between Will and Abigail in a park. Prior to this one-shot, Will and Abigail came together to plan how to capture Hannibal. I nearly included that as well, but I figured this was long enough as it is. Over all, this is an AU that explores how things would have been if Will and Abigail had come together instead of being pushed apart, because truly, I do think they could have helped one another and come out on top, and I'm sure Hannibal knew this too. Hopefully you enjoy!

"Suspended Animation"

Will Graham returned home with his chest and stomach feeling _empty_ , hollowed out of organs like just another Ripper victim. And perhaps he _was_ , but he'd be damned if he wasn't the **last.**

He loaded a pistol in the silence of his home. Not ten bullets this time. Not six. Just two. One for Hannibal, one for _insurance._ If it came down to that, gunpowder and blood staining his hands in someone's kitchen once more, he wouldn't panic. He would only ever do what he had always been intended to.

The dogs were quiet as he simmered chicken broth and rice on the stove. Will assumed they _knew_ , that their animal instincts outweighed even the sharpest human's. Still, he put on a brave face for them. Made sure, before leaving, to pet each of their heads. _Goodbye._

* * *

When Hannibal opened the door for Abigail, he was still stirring some type of sauce in a mixing bowl. She offered to help, but he immediately directed her toward the dining room, nudging the door shut with his foot while following after.

"Thank you for having me last minute," Abigail said, shrugging out of her coat. "My doctors don't understand what I'm trying to say, so therapy feels like a complete waste of time."

"As to be expected," Hannibal said. "They can never help you – _truly_ help you – without full knowledge of what you have done."

Abigail's mouth pursed. "No, I suppose you're right," she agreed, "but I can't tell them that. I _won't."_ Now pulling out her chair, she watched Hannibal as he poured the glaze over whatever artful concoction was in the center of the table. "It smells great," she said. It really, truly did, which was what made her stomach turn so badly. _Roasted human flesh._ God only knows what was in the sauce, but she had a feeling it wasn't typical, either. "What is it?"

"Braised pork with a cherry glaze. I was actually supposed to have another guest, but they canceled at the last minute. Dr. Bloom has been quite busy, what with the return of the Chesapeake Ripper."

Abigail blinked, trying not to appear surprised. It was the first time Hannibal had ever mentioned a crime other than her _own_ in her presence. "Oh… You mean, the murderer the Copycat tries to emulate?"

"Precisely." With a smile, he set down his utensils and had a seat at the head of the table. "Do take your napkin and spread it across your lap, Abigail."

"Oh, right… Sorry. I'm still thinking about therapy." Trying to still her trembling fingers, she took hold of the napkin and haphazardly laid it across her thighs. "Dr. Bloom is technically my primary physician, but she can only come out a couple times a week. In the meantime, I have these bubble-headed charlatans who only want to ask about my dad and what it was like to live with a killer. Truthfully? Sometimes I feel like they're baiting me for scraps of information, like hungry _vultures,_ and are just going to feed whatever I say to the press."

"Though entirely unethical, it is not out of the realm of possibility," Hannibal agreed. "If it pleases you, I would be more than happy to assist in times of distress. All you need to do is call. I am rarely out and about unannounced."

 _'Are you sure about that?'_ Abigail bitterly thought. She doubted Hannibal would be there during the earliest hours of the morning, right when it was an ideal time to go hunting. She knew that better than anyone. Instead, Abigail offered a warm smile and nodded. "Yes, I really appreciate that, thank you. At least you always know what to say." _And then some._ It made her wonder how soon in their relationship he'd started grooming her.

Several minutes passed, and discreetly, Abigail rubbed the back of her neck, feeling considerably warm. She had no way of knowing if Will was late. Hannibal didn't have a clock in the dining room, and she knew it would be rude to bring a phone to the table, so all she could truly do was wait. And wait she did.

After another lapse of time, there came a knock at the door, and Abigail turned her eyes to Hannibal with faux surprise. "Maybe it's Dr. Bloom?" she offered. "If you need me to leave, I-"

"Nonsense, Abigail. You wait right here, and I shall tend to our guest." Patting his napkin against his mouth, Hannibal set the cloth onto his chair and headed for the front door.

Nervously, Abigail craned her head to listen, barely able to hear the murmuring from the other room as she held her breath. Before long, the sound of footsteps reached her and she drew back into her former position, attempting nonchalance as Hannibal entered the room with Will in tow.

"This is a pleasant surprise, indeed," Hannibal crowed. "I was just telling Abigail how I had an abundance of food, and now you are both here to partake. Have a seat across from Abigail, won't you, Will?"

Abigail offered a smile, hoping to appear congenial in Hannibal's eyes. "Hi, Will. I hope you like pork, 'cause Hannibal basically slaughtered an entire pig."

"I had contemplated wild boar, but my pork dish is one of Dr. Bloom's favorites. Unfortunately, she won't be able to join us this evening." Reclaiming his seat at the head of the table, Hannibal placed his napkin back into his lap. "What brings you out this way, Will? Have your episodes been getting worse?"

Smile fading slightly, Abigail looked anxiously between the two men, unsure of why Hannibal was bringing up Will's medical condition. Since it had never been addressed around her before, she decided to play it safe and ask, "Episodes? Is something wrong?"

After he had taken his seat at the table, Will tried not to exhibit surprise. _Had_ the episodes been getting worse? "They must be." A sneer on his lips, deep hurt in his eyes.

 _"What_ must be?" A tinge of frustration laced Abigail's tone, and she held her fork suspended in midair, now turning to Hannibal for help.

"Will has been hallucinating," he explained. "Unfortunately, it would seem that fevers and night terrors are a price to pay for his imagination."

"It's a heavy price to pay, if that's the case." Will's lips quirked in annoyance. Abigail looked nervously to Hannibal, while Hannibal remained impassive and smug. How truly _awful_ it was to **see.**

"Of course not." Hannibal chose not to admonish him, but rather to continue their conversation. "Your gift is in many ways a double-edged blade. Were you referring to something specific? A price you've paid recently, perhaps?"

A sardonic smile spread across Will's face. "Well, I seem to be a point of _fascination_ for psychopaths and predators." He let it hang between them, a threat, before he continued almost pleasantly. "Just the other day, Freddie Lounds came poking around my garage, no doubt looking for _ammunition."_

"Snooping through one's personal affairs. That _is_ a dangerous game to play." Hannibal's voice maintained its evenness, yet something dark flashed in his gaze. Will held his eyes. "And playing such games…well, we often end up regretting our actions."

 _We do._ Will was certain Hannibal could see the sorrow, the _confirmation_ in his eyes, though he still refused to look away.

Abigail nervously turned her gaze to Will, feeling a growing unease over all of this new information. In the park, he had glossed over his illness – had even gone so far as to _downplay_ it – so in this case, her astonishment was genuine. It sank like a rock into the pit of her stomach, churning uncomfortably with all her other anxieties. "Oh…" Lowering her fork with a _clink,_ she cleared her throat before taking a generous swallow of white wine. Hannibal was scornful of American liquor laws, so this wasn't her first dinner imbibing.

Will downed his own glass of wine, something petulant and childish in him _relishing_ Hannibal's disapproving head tilt. _I'm not yours, I'll never be **yours.**_

Catching Will's gaze over the rim of her glass, Abigail lowered the drink with a shivery breath. "What did the doctors say? Will you be alright?"

"Tests are being run," Hannibal assured her, cutting his pork into tidy little bites. "As disconcerting as Will's ailment is, I believe that we are both far more concerned with _your_ future."

"Mine? Why?"

He eyed her in that cold, cutting way that only Hannibal could deliver, his lips lifting into a decidedly blank smile. "What I am trying to say, Abigail, is that after all your efforts, it would be a shame for you to choose the wrong path," he said. "The world is full of temptations. And now that you are untethered from your father's influence, you will be drawn to options that may _seem_ for the best, but will soon prove otherwise."

The back of Abigail's neck began to prickle, and discreetly, her hand tightened around her knife. "I don't have any plans," she assured him. "Or at least, none outside of going to school…"

"Perhaps Will has a suggestion for the path you should choose," Hannibal said, now turning his calculating gaze in the other man's direction. "Any contribution you have will be most appreciated."

Will's jaw tensed. From the looks of it, Abigail was _afraid_ now, and he felt his own heart rise and flutter in his throat. His eyes wide, he glanced from Hannibal to Abigail and back again.

"I wouldn't presume to know," he managed eventually. "I would suggest only that you trust your own judgment above anyone else's."

Abigail thumbed the edge of her knife, sliding her eyes in between the two men. She didn't know what they were talking about, and it frustrated her that she was being excluded, despite the _clear_ fact there was an underlying current of hostility. Nevertheless, she wanted – no, _needed_ to understand if she was going to plan her next conversational topic. It was imperative that she steer things back on course, and _fast._

"Admirers come with the territory, unfortunately," Abigail interjected. She instantly felt small when Hannibal glanced her way. "What I mean is, Will's been in the paper a lot, so Freddie considers him her cash cow. I can't really say I'm surprised she went snooping."

"Necessity does not excuse poor behavior," Hannibal said, now cutting into his pork more strongly. "And in your case, Abigail, I do hope you are not spending too much time with Miss Lounds. It would be a pity for you to pick up such unsavory habits."

"I haven't," Abigail assured him. Briefly glancing at Will, she added, "I'm going to write my book, but…I think I want to do it myself. That way, I can guarantee that my story – the _real_ story – will be told. I'm tired of people speaking for me."

"And what, precisely, do you consider the _real_ story, Abigail? The one where you are the victim? Or the executioner?"

Abigail dropped her fork onto her plate with a clatter, her eyes burning as she defiantly raised her chin. "I am _not_ a murderer."

"Perhaps not intentionally, but you and I have already discussed my feelings on the matter."

"And I didn't agree."

"I would presume that Nicholas _Boyle_ would agree with my observation, and quite strongly. You were in a state that night and could not help yourself." To Will, he added, "She is far less helpless than she looks. If her drive toward being lucrative wasn't an indicator, her survival instinct certainly is. Survivors often surprise us with their adaptive behaviors…their ability to disguise and _assimilate_ with what they otherwise would not."

The food in Abigail's mouth went down her throat like dry, unsavory bits of cork. "Will's a survivor, too," she softly offered. "You told me about that serial killer attacking him in the violin shop."

Hannibal's smile turned almost wolfish. "Indeed, he is," he agreed. "No longer the innocent flower, but the serpent under it."

Will picked up his knife, holding Hannibal's gaze _deliberately_ before he began to slice into his own pork. Something dark and resigned flickered in his eyes, and he imagined he saw something similar mirrored in Hannibal's. Perhaps it was regret that it had come to this, his would-be _family_ joined against him. Perhaps it was merely regret that he'd have to spend the rest of the evening disposing of their bodies.

"And here I thought I was the mongoose under the house." Will's sardonic, almost playful tone was belied by the deep hurt and suspicion in his face. "You're mixing your metaphors, Dr. Lecter."

 _' **You** were the serpent. It was always you. Tempting. Corrupting. Offering. But your gifts come at too great a cost.'_

Abigail gripped her fork more tightly, lifting a morsel to her mouth to take another slow, mechanical bite. Her jaw worked reflexively, and her tongue barely tasted as she watched Will and Hannibal bicker without truly _bickering._ It made her stomach bob like an aimless cork in the sea.

"Maybe I should go," she offered after a moment. "You both seem to have unresolved issues, and I'd hate to get in the way of that. My therapy problems can wait."

Hannibal held out a hand, stilling her movements as she went to grab her plate. "Nonsense, Abigail – your concerns are very much our own, just as our concerns are _yours._ Please…sit back down."

Obedient in her stunned disbelief, Abigail lowered back down into her chair. The underlying threat was clear: he very much considered her betrayal as severe as Will's, if not _more so_ since they had already shared a plethora of secrets. _Scratch my back and I'll scratch yours._

Deciding to return to Will's earlier remark, Hannibal chuckled almost congenially, standing and walking slowly and deliberately around the table to refill Will's wineglass. "I must admit my surprise that you had the time to drop by. I thought Jack would have called you out to the crime scene."

Will froze at the mention of Jack, his stomach sinking with Hannibal's words.

"Another Ripper murder, apparently. I do hope it was no one he knew."

As Abigail lifted her wine glass to her lips, she nearly choked at the calm, almost _delighted_ way Hannibal announced his latest kill. She finished her sip with a hard swallow, now looking to Will with round, fearful eyes. At this point, it wasn't a matter of _if_ Hannibal would attack, but _when._ He knew. He _knew,_ and the pending doom was nearly enough to rocket her up from her seat. "I need to use the bathroom," she whispered.

"It can wait," Hannibal admonished. Now looking to Will, he suggested, "Perhaps it would behoove you to check your phone messages. Jack may have paged you to come out for your expertise, and we both very well know how _disgruntled_ he can get when you are not in a cooperative state."

Discomfort crawled in Will's stomach, digging in its claws whenever Hannibal referred to them as _we._ As if they truly _were_ a family, as if they shared parental _concern_ for Abigail's well-being. Once it might have been almost endearing. Now it made him feel like being sick.

"How did you find out about the murder?" Abigail weakly asked. By this point, there was no use in feigning innocence. Hannibal would only lift the veil whenever _he_ was ready.

"I am in close correspondence with Dr. Bloom. She warned me that I may need to confer on the case." Hannibal lifted his glass in an almost mocking salute before taking a sip. "If you need to, Will, you may go. There is no obligation for you to stay here, as much as I delight in our talks. I can care for Abigail while you are away."

Fearfully, Abigail looked back to Will, silently pleading with him not to abandon her. He wanted them alone. _To divide and conquer._

Will took another sip of wine, tipping his head back deliberately as Hannibal regained his seat. The wolf baring its throat, _baiting._ All panic had evaporated from him, leaving in its place a steely sense of dread.

Hannibal wanted to separate them, perhaps wanted Abigail alone so he could reassert his influence or convince her of Will's instability. He had mentioned Will's episodes for the same reason he'd brought up Nicholas Boyle. _Doubt._ All it would take was a little, given that neither of them had wanted to believe Lecter's involvement in the first place.

"Jack certainly does like me _cooperative._ There seems to be a lot of that going around," Will said. Hannibal seemed almost amused by the remark, and something about that too saddened him. There was no room here for games, no room for recklessness or regret or nostalgia. He pulled his phone from his pocket.

a response to his latest text asking for back-up. _Nothing._ They were alone. He swallowed hard.

"Apparently, he can manage alone." He glanced furtively at Abigail, trying to communicate their situation.

Their eyes met across the table, and Abigail's heart fell into her stomach. _Alone. They would be fighting alone, and without weaponry._ She was unsure if Will had come to the dinner armed, but _she_ certainly hadn't, and was now strongly beginning to regret that decision.

"In that case," Hannibal announced, "I do hope you'll stay for dessert. We have so much to discuss. And the night is still so very young."

When Hannibal's lips quirked into a smile, Abigail found herself smiling too, the expression tight and an attempt at hiding the roiling, tumultuous emotions sluicing around in her stomach. She would be a fool to think this was a ceasefire. He would strike when they least expected it.

"I don't think I can eat another bite," Abigail softly said. "I'm sure dessert's wonderful, but therapy and Jack potentially finding out about Boyle has me stressed… I just can't bring myself to eat."

"Guilt and regret often ties the stomach into knots," Hannibal agreed, now sending them both a pointed look. "If you have a heavy heart, Abigail, then you also have a heavy stomach – one that does not allow anything more than bile to reside."

Abigail felt sick. "Trust me, I know from experience."

"I am certain that you do. Perhaps Will, as well, is quite aware since he has a job that revolves around difficult, potentially life-altering decisions. Sometimes I fear he believes he can handle everything on his own. Over-estimating one's ability is a common downfall in our species."

"We've all seen the worst of what humanity has to offer," Will allowed, his lips twitching between a grimace and a smile. "Dined with it. Perhaps let it get too close." A sad smile now, his eyes softening only for a moment. "Occupational hazard, where I'm concerned."

Perhaps the fact that he _did_ feel regret was what should have concerned him most of all.

"I'll clean the dishes," Abigail interjected, the remark almost seeming out of place. She rose with a graceless movement. "I hate feeling like I'm imposing, so at least let me do something…"

"You may get started after dessert. Speaking of…" Hannibal rose in a far smoother, more fluid motion than Abigail had, a smile once more touching his features. "If we are all ready, I shall go fetch the dessert from the kitchen."

Resigned, Abigail sank back down into her chair and reached for the wine bottle in the middle of the table. Fortunately, Hannibal did not witness her indiscretion as he headed off for the other room.

After he was safely out of earshot, Will turned to Abigail. When he noted the wine bottle in her hand, he raised an eyebrow. Hannibal **knew** , and their chances of success looked slimmer with each agonizing second that ticked by. His voice was a hiss, barely more than a whisper. "He'll want to confront us before doing anything. Maybe – _maybe_ it would catch him off-guard if we confronted him first."

Though Abigail had begun to pour herself another glass, she froze midstream as Will spoke. Slowly setting the bottle back onto the table, she lowered her drink and looked up, her eyes sharp and leery. "In what way?" she whispered back. "He may attack if we say we know… But on the other hand, he might not. Especially if we act _encouraging_ of his extracurricular activities." She chewed her lip. "Either way, he left us alone on purpose. He _wants_ us to talk." _Two worms dangling helplessly on a hook._ "There's nothing to do now but dive in."

"I don't know," Will admitted, his eyes fixed determinedly on the table as he slid a knife into the napkin in his lap. "I don't think he'll buy the _encouragement_ , but maybe if we act doubtful…or conflicted…" For him, it would be too easily done. And only _partially_ pretended. "He wants us to talk or he wants to demonstrate that he's not _afraid_ of us talking."

More than anything, Will wanted to _do something_ , whether with words or actions, not to sit idly by and wait for Hannibal to decide their fate, to write their doom or forgiveness in his book as if he fancied himself _God._

"I have a gun in the car." His voice dropped. "But I don't want to leave you alone here."

Abigail's face grew ashen. "I could get it, maybe? I'll excuse myself and look for it in your car."

"I went for something more simple this evening, I'm afraid."

The sound of Hannibal's voice caused Abigail to lurch back, her head turning as he entered the room with a silver tray. "As I said earlier, this evening's meal was prepared with Dr. Bloom in mind, and she is quite fond of tiramisu. I do hope you are, as well."

"I am," Abigail thinly agreed. "It smells great." In truth, her adrenaline was allowing very few of her senses to function, so she couldn't smell the sweet dessert at all. "It's been forever since I had any."

"But not quite up to par, I would imagine."

"No… I had it at a school function. Culinary arts class, in fact." Despite her earlier claims of not having been hungry, she offered him her dessert plate when Hannibal held out his hand. In the middle of the table, a large knife laid alongside the pork loin. Abigail's fingers itched for it, but she quickly diverted her eyes elsewhere, lest Hannibal hone in on her intentions. With her dessert now in front of her, she picked up her spoon and began to sample it.

"Your plate, if you please." Hannibal intercepted the dishware from Will's grasp, now sliding the perfect amount of tiramisu onto the plate in an equally perfect square.

"I'm sure it will be delicious. You've never disappointed in that regard," Will said. He offered Hannibal a smile, terse and sad.

"I'm glad. I've always striven for your happiness, Will." Hannibal's voice softened, though his eyes remained chips of rock, hard and cold.

"Sounds like a Sisyphean task." At the reference, Hannibal smiled broadly, pride again shining in his features, though it did nothing to detract from his impassive front. Will winced, turning away from Hannibal–

 _something in me loved something in him_.

–and Abigail's eyes were just as difficult to meet. So much he would do for her, so much he _wanted for her–_

And yet they sat mutely at the Devil's table. _We three._

Growing weary of the thinly veiled metaphors, Abigail stacked her plates and frowned, her blue eyes flashing as she looked to Hannibal. But before she could speak her mind, he cut her off with a suggestive ultimatum.

"Why don't you tend to the pork, Abigail? You have been eyeing it all evening, so if it pleases you, I will allow you to slice it into manageable bits and pack it away in the freezer."

Abigail blanched, her mouth pressing into a thin, grim little line. "Are you sure everyone's done?"

"Quite sure." Again, Hannibal gestured toward the dish. "Please… Help yourself."

 _Another power play_. Drawing their focus to the meat, offering Abigail a knife…too _easy_ a tactic now. Will hoped only that she wouldn't fall for it.

Uncertain of the exact angle he was playing, Abigail slowly rose and reached across the table for the knife. Her reflection flashed across the surface – pale and drawn and _terrified_ – yet she turned it toward its proper position, ignoring the fear in her heart as she began to slice the pork into more manageable portions.

"We three must protect one another," Hannibal lowly reminded them. "After all, who in this wide world would accept you – the _both_ of you – for what you have done? You would be condemned in a court of law… But not by me. I embrace and nurture what most otherwise would not." His eyes darkened to a maroon hue. "We should never be expected to suppress who we are."

Abigail paused mid-slice, her hand trembling around the handle. Hannibal was _peeking_ around the curtain, but hadn't yet fully drawn the blinds. "I don't feel unwelcome in the world," she lied. "People want to help me get better." Slowly, she drew away from the pork, the large knife still in hand.

Hannibal's smile was cold. "You are not naive, Abigail, and yet you are behaving quite foolishly."

"I don't think it's _foolish_ to believe people outside of this room want to help. But trust?" Tears pricked her eyes and she laughed, nodding almost scornfully. "Yeah. I have a hard time _trusting_ that people will help." _Most especially you._

"What would be foolish," Hannibal continued, "is to presume that anyone's good intentions are without thought to their own personal gain."

Though Hannibal's words were meant primarily for Abigail, Will didn't miss his inclusion. While he would mostly **agree** – _who could accept you as you are?_ – he raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Convicted in a court of law? I find that highly unlikely, if not downright _impossible."_ A sharp reminder that Hannibal held no such sway where he was concerned. He almost believed it.

Hannibal's lips twitched in what might have been a smile. "Ah, yes. The Bureau applauded you as a _hero_." His eyes narrowed, fixed themselves with hawk-like intensity on Will's face. "But you're not a hero, Will. Rather something far darker and more magnificent." There it was again, pride and malevolence and something softer (how could it be softer when it was blacker still?).

"Yet I am entirely certain their glowing opinion will last only as long as it suits them to _use_ you. You hardly seemed _surprised_ to discover who was responsible for Nicholas Boyle's murder. That doesn't seem like a secret you should be keeping from Agent Crawford." Will chewed his lip, silent as Hannibal went on. "They will not see your magnificence. Only your darkness. They will turn on you quickly when you reveal yourself."

Hannibal's gaze finally left Will, returning to Abigail with a smug neutrality. "So much for good intentions. What use are they if that _altruism_ is based on a foundation of lies?"

"How long have you had to suppress who _you_ are, Dr. Lecter?" Will's voice was just a scrape short of hostile. "I would imagine it's been quite some time since _anyone_ has seen **you**."

Now looking to Will, Abigail gripped the blade in mute uncertainty, torn as she listened to Hannibal both praise and malign Will's sense of character. "People can be both," she weakly offered. "Nothing in life is ever black and white… Will saved lives, so that makes him a hero. But he's also done bad things, so that makes him… _troubled."_

"And what does that make you, Abigail?"

She swallowed, her throat closing painfully around the lump that followed. "According to you, it makes me a victim."

"And do victims stand by bandying a weapon?"

Looking down at the knife in her hand, Abigail appraised it almost as if it were her first time seeing the blade. "Sometimes victims have to fight back…to reclaim their power. Sometimes sacrifices need to be made."

"You have already made that sacrifice through Nicholas Boyle."

"My fight was never _with_ Nick Boyle, so that isn't true."

"Put down the knife, Abigail."

She quivered, her eyes burning as she shook her head.

"If you will not put down the knife, then I expect you to use it."

Again she shook her head, though this time her fear was accompanied by the growing taste of bile.

Hannibal's eyes flashed. Taking hold of his own knife, he turned and brought the blade down with a swift, fluid motion into the back of Will's hand. A scream caught in Abigail's throat as the blood pooled to the surface, causing her to waver as she clutched at her chair for support.

It felt almost like a punch, the stab to his hand delivered with force and precision, and Will should have been _expecting it_ –

–had been expecting it, but not like this.

As if from far away, Will heard a strangled scream, heard rather than _felt_ the blade being withdrawn from his hand. Saw the blood bubbling forth from the open wound like some hot spring and was sickened instantly, hit more strongly by _sickness –_ that _sour_ nausea when your body bypasses hunger – even than pain.

Reeling, he reached instinctively for his napkin, applying pressure almost in futility as his eyes found Hannibal's face.

"Sometimes sacrifices need to be made," Hannibal parroted. Now examining the blade _,_ he made a show of wiping the bloodied weapon onto a cloth napkin. "Perhaps next time, Abigail, you will be more open to adhering to my requests."

Drawing in air with quick, dizzying little breaths, Abigail fumbled for her napkin and tried to reach across the table – _allherfaultallherfault_ – but Hannibal held up a hand, indicating that she stop. "Will can tend to his own wounds," he said. "He has surely been trained for this kind of situation."

Cold, impassive, _curious. He's testing our bond. Seeing how best to play us off of one another._ Gritting his teeth, Will turned to Abigail and forced a grim smile. "It's fine. It's _nothing."_ The last word was directed at Hannibal, a challenge, pulling his venomous focus away from Abigail and back onto himself.

Hannibal silently held out a fresh napkin to Will in offering. "If you require assistance, Will, you need only ask."

Will grimaced, taking the proffered napkin and swapping it for his own blood-soaked one, but gave no other answer. Bile rose in his throat, rage and humiliation now eclipsing shock and pain.

Hannibal looked back and forth between his guests, _a serpent_ , smiling almost indulgently at Abigail. "Perhaps you should apologize to Will, given that you are the sole cause of his current _discomfort_."

 _Discomfort._ A knife through the hand was way fucking more than _discomfort,_ but all Abigail could do was gape in stunned silence. She felt sick. She felt _sorry_ – she was _so, so, so_ sorry – but she wasn't going to apologize. She wasn't going to give _him_ the satisfaction. Instead, a seething burst of rage began to bubble within her breast, and her eyes turned electric blue as she rounded on Hannibal in an instant.

"I'm not going to apologize for _your_ actions," she hissed. "I'm tired of apologizing for what I've done – I'm tired of being told what to _do._ Day in and day out, there are people horning in with their _unwanted opinions,_ telling me how to act, how to speak, how to cope, and sometimes even who to _trust._ But I'm telling you, I _don't_ trust you, and I _don't_ want to be like you! I'm _not_ you! I'm not my _dad!"_ A sob caught in her throat, but she did not waver. Instead, Abigail furiously grabbed her blade between thumb and forefinger, then threw it with all her might – just the way her father had taught her.

The knife rounded through the air, over and over and over, before Hannibal caught it with quick precision between his fingers. He hadn't even been _nicked._

Will knew now there was no chance of besting Hannibal in hand-to-hand combat. His right hand oozed blood like a snake's venom, his left hand awkwardly trying to stem the flow. Hannibal must have hit a vein or an artery, because he wouldn't stop _bleeding_. He was dizzy and disoriented, and Will Graham was no stranger to pain nor the sight of blood. He had to do _something_ , had to **act** before he was completely useless.

Almost appearing amused, Hannibal canted his head and slowly drew the blade down toward the table. "Tell me, Abigail: do you wish to hurt me? _Kill_ me?" When Abigail looked fearfully toward Will, Hannibal snapped his fingers, commanding her attention to him once more. "Do not look at Will – look at _me._ Answer the question." Yet again, Abigail refused to answer, and Hannibal drew his blade toward Will's hand before she intervened.

"No, no, please! Yes, I… _yes!_ I just tried to kill you, so yes!"

Appeased, Hannibal rose from the table and buttoned his blazer, now smoothly going over to Will's side. "As much as your behavior pleases me, Abigail, that also makes you a _liability._ Not just for me, but for _Will._ And we cannot have liabilities in our situation." Flipping the blade around, he held it out to Will, his eyes sparkling with something cold and filled with monstrous delight. _Another test._ "What is to be done with Abigail, dear Will? She is a loose cannon."

His intention was clear. Will's eyes travelled between them. "Isn't that _unpredictability_ what drew you to her? What drew you to _me?"_

Will accepted the knife before holding out his bloody hand for Hannibal to bandage. "If you wouldn't mind."

Hannibal looked down at Will, not giving any indication of surprise or dissent when he held out his hand. "But of course," Hannibal assured him. "Please…let us all reconvene in the kitchen." Helping Will up to his feet, Hannibal steered the younger man around the table before palming a smaller, yet equally sharp knife as the one in Will's hand. He nodded to Abigail. "Follow us, if you please."

The kitchen. Where they had planned their _confrontation._ Where _they_ had begun. Where, one way or another, this all would end.

Trusting Will to stand and walk on his own, Hannibal took hold of the girl's shoulder and yanked her forward, now perching the blade beneath her throat as they moved. He did not intend to harm her – not unless he _had_ to – but the insurance of preventing an attack was currently the best option he had.

Abigail winced and attempted to lean away from the knife, the blade touching her skin in a silver kiss as her heart thudded in hollow, panicked syncopation. She could taste bile. This had all gone horribly, _horribly_ wrong, and she couldn't recall the exact moment that their plan had spiraled into the ground.

"Go stand in the corner."

Realizing that Hannibal had meant her, Abigail drew a breath when the blade was lifted and shakily stepped toward the refrigerator, her hand fluttering toward her throat to test for blood.

Hannibal, meanwhile, turned on the burner to his stove and grabbed a large bowl. Now filling it up with hot water, he advised, "First, we must cauterize the wound. I must warn you that this will be extremely painful."

Abigail blinked and shakily lowered her hands. "He needs a doctor…"

"Nonsense – I _am_ a doctor. He is in perfectly good hands. The best, in fact." Once Hannibal was pleased with the temperature of the stove, he took hold of Will's wrist and guided the man toward the glowing, angry-red spiral.

Will watched mutely as Hannibal prepared the burner. He _knew_ what was coming, further pain in the guise of _care_ and _what's best_. He nodded and obediently followed Hannibal to the stove, _consenting_.

The sick sizzle and hiss was nothing compared to the pain. And even the pain faded behind the _smell_ , burning flesh and vaporized blood. Will swayed, an agonized hiss escaping through clenched teeth, and Hannibal placed a steadying hand on the small of his back before guiding him to the bowl and there submerging his hand. Abigail watched on while dizzily gripping the counter.

With the wound cauterized, Hannibal finally released Will's wrist and steered him back toward the bowl of water. "I shall apply astringent for the wound and aloe for the burn, and then we shall discuss what is to become of you both."

"That's still up for discussion?" Will bit back an incredulous laugh, his breath shallow and ragged.

"Oh, yes. Your fate still rests **entirely** in your own hands." Hannibal released Will's arm in order to fetch astringent and bandages. As he returned he paused, looking appraisingly at Abigail. "I must impress upon you, however, that rash decisions have consequences, and they are often _irreversible_. Would you care to join us, Abigail?" He steered Will to a seat at the kitchen counter and gestured for Abigail to pull up a chair of her own.

It was strange, Will thought, that Hannibal had still admitted nothing. Had not really even confronted them with their betrayal. Making them _complicit_ , even still. _More secrets for us._ The knife was heavy in his hand, and he moved to place it on the counter.

"Keep that close," Hannibal's voice lilted ominously as he glanced at Abigail. "You may yet need it."

Abigail was stricken by the sight of Hannibal bandaging Will's hand. It referred her to another time, another _confession,_ where she'd unburdened her darkest corners to prying eyes. Hannibal had held her afterward, gentle and yet _controlling,_ and she felt sick for not having seen the signs. He hadn't wanted to help her. He'd wanted to _groom_ her.

With tears stinging her eyes, Abigail could barely process Hannibal's threat as he indicated that she have a seat. "How do you do it?" she weakly asked. "How have you killed so many people without being caught?"

Hannibal paused a moment, his eyes like blank slate before he finished tying Will's bandage. "Are you wearing a wire?"

"What?"

Now sliding his hands across Will's chest, he began patting the man down, testing for weaponry or means of communication with the FBI. When he found nothing, he reached for Abigail. She hung back, terrified, before being wrenched forward so that he could do the same to her. The test proved negative for them both.

Blinking back tears, Abigail promptly returned to the head of the counter, not wanting to sit by Hannibal _or_ Will, lest he somehow be seduced by the doctor's sway. She knew better than anyone how _convincing_ he could be.

With a sigh, Hannibal dumped the water from the basin and returned it to the counter, his gaze sliding between his "family" with clear disapproval – perhaps even _disappointment_. "Now which one of you sought to betray me first?"

"I did." The words tumbled from Abigail's mouth, soft and venomous. "I found your recipe cards at the soiree, and then I told Will."

Will shook his head mutely, eyes frantic, when Abigail _confessed_. She had already attacked Hannibal, while Will wasn't sure how many strikes Hannibal would permit her. He hardly seemed in a **forgiving** mood.

Eyes unreadable, Hannibal pressed, "Even though you, too, could be implicated?"

"Yes."

A dark, almost predatory sheen came over Hannibal's eyes, and then he walked around the counter, Abigail's heart leaping into his throat once he was standing directly alongside her. "Do you know what some cultures do to _thieves,_ Abigail?"

She blinked rapidly, having a few ideas. Instead, she gave a terse, "I've heard that forgiveness works pretty well in _this_ culture."

"And yet you did not heed your own advice?" Seizing her by the wrist, Hannibal slammed her hand against the countertop and indicated that Will pick up his knife. "In other parts of the world, it is quite common to _cut off_ the offending appendage. If nothing else, it prevents you from _stealing_ again."

With a panicked breath, Abigail attempted to squirm free of Hannibal's grasp, but he responded by forcing her cheek down into the cold tile, his hand holding tightly to the back of her neck to keep her from moving.

"Will, _please,"_ she begged.

"You know what needs to be done," Hannibal coolly said. "This will teach her a lesson – it will teach her to put us _all_ first instead of herself."

Will picked up the knife as Hannibal indicated, holding it in a white and trembling hand. The air he breathed was choked with fear. It was hard to _think_ without dissociating entirely. Abigail's voice, desperate and terrified, rang in his ears as if funneled through fog and distance.

Feeling almost _drugged_ , his eyelids drooping with pain and endorphins, he returned his gaze to Hannibal's face. "If thy right hand offend thee?" The knife in his hand was steady.

"Cut it off and cast it from thee. Indeed." Hannibal's voice brimmed with approval, though it was still so very **cold.** "Now, if you please."

Will shook his head, hesitating, the knife once again shaking in his grip. "It won't be _clean_."

Hannibal smiled almost bemusedly. "I'm certain you will do your very best."

Will looked up, allowing Hannibal to finally see the confusion and hurt in his eyes. _Manipulation through **honesty.** Isn't that what works best? _"Did you ever plan on telling me? On telling _us_? How do I know I can trust **you** now?"

Turning his dark, shark-like eyes to Will, Hannibal processed the slew of questions with a cold smile. "When the right moment arose, yes, I would have told you both," he said. "Neither of you were quite ready – perhaps Abigail was more so than you, given her eagerness to _act –_ but as we have already established, her erratic behavior has become a liability. We are quite lucky that the police haven't been sniffing around due to her foolhardy impulsiveness." His eyes grew steely. "How soon 'til she turns on _you,_ Will? Do you truly believe she has your best interests at heart? Only _I_ care what happens to you – the _both_ of you – which is why you _know_ you can trust me."

With a low, even sigh through his nose, Hannibal almost appeared put-out as he reached for a cabinet drawer. After withdrawing a red felt tip pen, which he used for occasional prep, he drew a dotted line across Abigail's wrist and once more indicated for Will to act. "It is for her own good," he admonished. "If you fail to exact her punishment, you _will_ be sentencing her to death."

Abigail furiously shook her head, unsure of just who she was pleading "no" to.

Seeming to guess Will's predicament, Hannibal added, "If it pleases you, I can gag her to prevent full volume screams. In fact, that might be our best course of action, seeing how I have neighbors."

Abigail's eyes glinted with realization. Opening her mouth, she gave a harsh, piercing scream, the sheer volume stunning her oppressor, if only for a moment. But as with all things, Hannibal was quick to recover. He swiped Will's knife in a rage, now bringing it down strongly into the back of Abigail's shoulder. Her cries soon turned genuine and agonized, her body curling and twisting as she laid there pinned like a butterfly to a mounting board. The wound throbbed, burned and _bled,_ and her vision pitched and wavered as Hannibal removed the knife from her shoulder.

All of the air left Will's lungs – all of the air left the _room_.

 _no no no no no no no_

He rose from his chair, and the room _must_ have been airless, because it made no _sound_ as it fell backwards, and sound must not travel well in airless space. Even Abigail's _cries_ were muted, muffled as if by a gag or if Will had something in his ears.

 _Hear no evil. Speak no evil._

Will used his own scarf to apply pressure to her wound, muttering (because it hurt, he _knew_ it hurt) a litany of _sorry sorry sorry._ Her blood once again coated his fingers, sickly warm and so red, so **much**. Here they were, another monster's kitchen. Here they were, and so much of their beginning was echoed in their end.

Amidst the hazy delirium, Abigail could see Will rising from her peripheral, his hands shaking as he fumbled to press his scarf into her shoulder. She flinched away, panicked and trembling, before allowing him to push down more strongly into her wound. She knew it would do little good. Her shoulder had been punctured – perhaps the blade had even traveled _through to the other side_ – and she'd witnessed enough kills to know what was a mercy and what was a punishment. Hannibal was _not_ giving her a mercy kill.

Hannibal must have noted the dramatic irony, for he allowed Will to proceed unchecked for a moment before intervening. With a heavy, steady hand, he guided Will back to his seat, murmuring almost _reassuringly_ that he would take care of it. Deftly and yet pitilessly, he wrapped the scarf around Abigail's shoulder, a makeshift bandage. Unlike with Will's wound, he didn't bother cauterizing it or applying disinfectant. The message was clear. She wasn't long for the world. It didn't _matter._

When he had finished his work, Hannibal set Abigail (not **unkindly** – almost as if she were a doll) into a chair beside Will. The change in his demeanor sent chills racing down Will's spine. His rage had dissipated. He had made his judgment, and now she was no longer part of the equation. Hannibal turned back to Will, brushing his hair from his face with a sickeningly gentle hand. "What would her father do, Will? Tell us."

Will looked at her pallid, agonized face. He had already _failed_ so much already. He couldn't fail to protect her now. His voice was sorrowful and flat. "It would be clean. Quick. Painless. One cut. And after – he would honor every part of her. Make her _last_. So he could keep her with him as long as he could."

The knife gleamed, silver-sharp and ominous, in Hannibal Lecter's hand. "Regrettable," he said to Will, the coldness of his eyes flickering only momentarily. "She has shown no desire to cooperate or even _listen_. She would doom us all."

Abigail trembled, watching Will as he looked back and forth between them. He rose then, and a cold sweat began to form along her brow. "Don't," she pleaded. _Don't leave me, don't leave me._ The space to her right felt inexplicably _gaping_ now that he was no longer beside her, and the vulnerability wrapped around her throat like a noose, her chest heaving with soft, fragile little breaths. She could hear what Will was saying, but it sounded like nothing more than the distant hiss of the ocean.

Will's heart had slowed to an ominous drumbeat. He moved slowly, trance-like, and raised both hands (even despite his injury) to Hannibal's chest, fisting his shirt. "Don't." Hannibal raised an eyebrow.

Tears prickled in his eyes; no games, no manipulation, no longer trying to reach a part of Hannibal Lecter long dead and buried. "I'll do anything you want. I'll _be_ anything you want. Let her go–" his voice cracked. "–and I'll _kill_ anyone you want, if that's what you need from me. Just not her."

Hannibal's eyes were inky-black. Curling his free hand around the fingers that grasped his shirt, his grip could almost be described as _affectionately gentle,_ but the chilled steel in his resolve belied all sentiment. "What would happen, were we to spare her?" he asked. "Would she keep quiet? Be able to _live_ with the guilt? No." He shook his head. "In my observation, she has already dug up a young man's body out of guilt, severely _jeopardizing_ my livelihood as well as her own, and spiraled both you and herself onto this path of martyrdom. She would not be able to live with herself… So I suggest we do the right thing and end her suffering."

Will shook his head, protesting softly, "It was a mistake. _I_ won't be able to live with the guilt of killing her." Hannibal lifted his free hand to pat Will's cheek, almost _consolingly._ Will continued; feverishly, frantically appealing to Hannibal's delusion of _family_ if nothing else. "You told me we were going to _protect_ her."

"And we did. But we could not protect her from herself. I am sure you will find it in your heart to understand."

 _No._ Abigail was unsure of what overcame her in that moment, but she staggered up from her chair, eyes wild and movements manic as she shuffled until the island was in between them. Hannibal looked at her over Will's shoulder and she burst into tears, guilt tearing through her insides as she backed up toward the entryway. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry._ She hoped Will would understand – that he would _know_ she wasn't abandoning him. Without backup, it would be foolish to rely on charm and pity alone.

"Abigail?"

She took off, dizzy and disoriented as she made a staggering beeline for the front door.

When she ran, the flight of a wounded animal, Will felt his heart leap. She could call for help, run to the neighbors Hannibal had been so _concerned_ about (maybe that was just a ruse anyway, a _test_ of her cooperation). Maybe she at least could get away.

Hannibal stood frozen for a moment; his hand still closed over Will's clutching fingers, his head tilted like a curious bird of prey. Finally, his eyes returned to Will's face. "See? My curiosity and sympathy got the better of me where Miss Hobbs was concerned, and now she will destroy us all. If I find I've made the same mistake with you, I shall be _terribly_ **disappointed."** Will felt the threat shudder through his body.

"You haven't."

Another approving caress, Hannibal's thumb lingering on his cheek.

A knife flashed in Hannibal's hand so quickly that Will didn't have time to react. It probably wouldn't have _mattered_ if he'd seen it, as every moment Hannibal's attention remained on him gave Abigail further hope of escape.

He _felt_ the air hissing out of his lung when Hannibal withdrew the knife and he collapsed to his knees.

"Forgive me if I harbor doubts about your loyalties," Hannibal was saying, his voice almost _regretful_. "But tonight's experiences have reminded me never to let caution be impeded by sentiment." _He couldn't **breathe,** his chest was caved in–_

 _was this what dying felt like?_

Hannibal bent down, wiping a tear (more shock than even pain) from Will's cheek before assuring him that it was a pneumothorax, treated easily enough if he didn't do anything foolish like aggravate it. Then he was gone, and Will Graham knelt bloody and gasping for breath on the kitchen floor.

Abigail, meanwhile, had managed to gain considerable distance. The trees pitched and wavered before her, seeming to reach for her with long, gnarled fingers as she wept and panted. Will's car… Was it unlocked? He'd mentioned he'd brought a gun with him, so maybe…?

Picking up speed, Abigail practically threw herself against the car door and yanked on the handle. It didn't budge. With a frustrated scream, she smacked her hand against the window and tugged harder, sobbing piteously as the door still refused to open.

Behind her, she could hear the pounding of feet, and with a panicked gasp, Abigail broke away from the car and began stumbling for the only other place she could think of: one of Hannibal's neighbors.

Hannibal loomed behind her like a specter, a glinting knife in hand that caught the moon's brilliant glow. Barely able to breathe, Abigail broke away from the sight. She ran with only the strength of adrenaline propelling her weary, broken body, each spasm of breath burning her lungs as her limbs screamed their protest. _This wasn't happening. It was all a dream._

With her shoes slapping against the bone-white sidewalk, Abigail could barely see through the tears as she ran. Behind her, she could hear Hannibal in stealthy pursuit. His footfalls were much quieter, stronger, and _closer_ than she would have liked.

That was when a pair of headlights cut through the darkness.

With a grateful sob, Abigail ran toward the moving vehicle, waving her arms despite the throbbing, piercing pain from her shoulder. _Stop – oh please, please stop…_

The car seemed intent on its path, so Abigail flung herself out into the street, holding out her hands as the wheels came to a screeching halt. Her palms slapped against the hood and she sobbed, now staggering around to the driver's side of the car. "Please," she hiccupped, "he's trying to kill me… _Please!"_

The man behind the wheel balked, now unrolling his window with jittery fingers. He spotted the bloom of red on her shoulder – _blood?_ Oh _God,_ he was going to be sick – before stepping out of the car. "Okay, okay," he cajoled, "let's get you into the car. I can drive you to the hospital, and-"

"NO! There's still someone else inside! We have to go back for him, and-"

"HEY!" The man moved around Abigail, now squinting toward the figure of a man – _Hannibal_ – racing toward the wooded area behind the houses. Placing a hand on Abigail's non-injured shoulder, he pulled out his cell phone and began dialing 911. "You stay here," he instructed. "I'll go inside for your friend."

But Abigail didn't listen. She was already racing back toward the house, her heart feeling as if it would implode as her breath shredded her lungs like knives. Will had never come outside. _Something was horribly, horribly wrong._

Dashing across the threshold, Abigail skidded to a halt in the kitchen entryway. That was when she saw the blood. With a wheezing breath, she practically collapsed alongside him, her hands lifting at Will's shoulders as she attempted to get him upright. There was so much blood…oh God, something sounded _punctured._ She recalled the day she'd injured a deer in the woods. The bullet had nicked the doe's lung, and the creature had gasped and wheezed and _struggled_ until Hobbs had put her down. Was that what would have to happen? Would she have to put _Will_ down?

Bursting into tears, Abigail squeezed his shoulders and moved her hand to his wound, tentatively pressing since she wasn't sure if applying pressure would worsen his condition. "I'm so sorry," she choked. _Allmyfaultallmyfault._ "Help is coming, but you have to stay awake…"

Will slumped to the floor in defeat, his heart tachycardic to compensate for his unoxygenated blood. He had hoped at least for Hannibal to _kill_ him, to gift him with a clean death, and a shameful part of him hoped the approaching footsteps were Hannibal's. An angry god, returned to tend to the wounds of his prodigal son.

 _You know the punishment for thieves, Will. What about **liars?**_

 _I never lied to you._

 _Sins of omission. You would aid in my downfall._

 _You betrayed me. The **original sin** was **yours.**_

In his head the voices blurred together. He had _meant_ it. Will Graham was certain he could come to an understanding with Hannibal, and if it meant saving Abigail's life – _protecting her, like you should have_ – he would do it in a heartbeat.

Someone was _touching_ him. His vision was too white to see who. "Hannibal–Hannibal–I'm _sorry_ –" His fingernails scrabbled uselessly on the floor.

It was a woman's voice, young and scared, and she was apologizing. _Abigail._ He managed her name, a gasp only, before feebly clawing at the floor.

Abigail stilled his movements by grasping his hands. He collapsed again, determined amidst his delirium.

"Don't talk," Abigail snapped – it was a command, not a suggestion. Eyes slick with tears, she grabbed a nearby dishtowel and pressed it into Will's wound, the terry cloth sopping up the gore almost instantly. It was funny, she mused, how red could simultaneously be the color of life _and_ death.

"Where is he?"

Will's question stopped Abigail cold, her head shaking as she applied more pressure. "I don't know," she whispered. "There's a man in the street… He stopped to help me, and then Hannibal took off. He's somewhere in the woods." The thought of being _hunted_ came to mind, but she immediately blinked the thought away, unwilling to concentrate on anything but keeping Will alive. _He wasn't supposed to be hurt. This was wrong, this was wrong, the plan was all **wrong** -_

"Get her away from him! Come on, get back – get her _back!"_

Abigail lurched, stunned when two EMTs hefted her up off the ground. Fighting against their grip, she shrieked in both panic and pain when they pulled her back, now gaining clearance to Will as they loaded him up onto a stretcher.

"This one's injured, too!" the EMT to her right called.

Feeling the paramedics poke and prod at her being, Abigail accepted the inspection with numb acquiescence, her eyes never leaving Will as they wheeled him toward the front door.

"He's gonna be okay, kid."

 _'Don't you promise me anything – don't you **dare** promise me that.' _ Promises, after all, were meant to be broken.

 **A/N** **:** If you would like to follow either me (as Abigail) or my main Will on Tumblr, our URLs are shcsallrightnow and zugzwcng. :)


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